THE BURIAL OF MOSES

While looking for a copy of "The Graveyard Rabbit" I ran across a book on my shelves published in 1907. POEMS With Power to Strengthen the Soul, compiled by James Mudge, Author of The Best of Browning, Etc. sat there just begging me to open it. I leafed through the pages and upon finding the poem entitled, “The Burial of Moses,” I felt it was perfect to include in a post here at Covered Bridges. I began to research the author, Cecil Frances Alexander, whom I was not familiar with. I should have been, seeing as how she was so prolific and was the author of some of the most beautiful hymns ever written.

Born: Ear­ly Ap­ril 1818, Red­cross, Coun­ty Wick­low, Ire­land
Died: Oc­to­ber 12, 1895, Lon­don­der­ry, North­ern Ire­land
Buried: Ci­ty Cem­e­te­ry, Lon­don­der­ry, North­ern Ire­land

Cecil Frances Alexander was born in Ireland, as my earliest Richards ancestor was said to have been. I have not taken the time to research that fact but have seen others’ work and they conclude John Richards came from Ireland as did his wife, Biddy Cunningham.

Mrs. Alexander was married to William Alexander, of Derry and Raphoe, and later the Anglican primate for Ireland. Cecil Alexander wrote about 400 hymns in her lifetime. She is buried in City Cemetery, Londonderry, Northern Ireland.

Your Daughters Shall Prophesy,
Your Old Men Shall Dream Dreams.
Your Young Men Shall See Visions.
Joel 2:28

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER
(C.F.A. HYMN WRITER)

Wife of William, Bishop of Derry and Raphoe
Died October 12, 1895

WILLIAM ALEXANDER
Bishop of Derry and Raphoe, 1867 - 96
Anglican Primate of All Ireland

Photos of her grave are found at Find a Grave and were added to that site by Bob Dennis 11/16/2007

“Burial of Moses” appeared anon. in Dublin University Magazine, 1856 and caused Tennyson to say it was one of the few poems of a living author he wished he had written.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES

By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave.
But no man dug that sepulcher,
And no man saw it e’er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek
Grows into the great sun –

Noiselessly as the springtime
Her crest of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves –
So, without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance some bald old eagle
On gray Beth-peor’s height,
Out of his rocky eyrie
Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance some lion, stalking,
Still shuns the hallowed spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drums
Follow the funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his matchless steed
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land
They lay the sage to rest;
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble drest,
In the great minister’s transept height,
Where lights like glory fall,
While the sweet choir sings and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth’s philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hillside for his pall;
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave;
And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in his grave.

In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again – most wondrous thought! –
Before the judgment day,
And stand, with glory wrapt around,
On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life
Through Christ, the incarnate God.

O lonely tomb in Moab’s land,
O dark Beth-peor’s hill,
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace –
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.

- Cecil Frances Alexander

Sources accessed November 10, 2008: http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=13737570 Cecil Frances Alexander

http://www.pgil-eirdata.org/html/pgil_datasets/authors/a/Alexander,CF/life.htm Cecil Frances Alexander

http://www.cyberhymnal.org/bio/a/l/e/alexander_cfh.htm Cecil Frances Humphreys Alexander

THE COMMON LOT

Once, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man, and who was he?

Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth;

The land in which he died unknown;

His name has perished from the earth;

This truth survives alone:

That joy and grief and hope and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;

His bliss and woe – a smile, a tear!

Oblivion hides the rest.

He suffered – but his pangs are o’er;

Enjoyed – but his delights are fled;

Had friends – his friends are now no more;

And foes – his foes are dead.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;

Encountered all that troubles thee;

He was – whatever thou hast been;

He is – what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and man,

Erewhile his portion, life, and light,

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye

That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace

Than this – there lived a man.

– James Montgomery